How could they meet as indifferent friends?
Too much they loved for that.

It was a final parting, than which death had been less dreadful--for Hope sits ever by the bed of death--and misery crushed them to the earth.
He left her, and happiness went out of his life as at nightfall the daylight goes out of the day.

Well, at least he had his work to go to.
But Beatrice, poor woman, what had she?
Geoffrey left her.

When he had gone some thirty paces he turned again and gazed his last upon her.

There she stood or rather leant, her hand resting against the wet rock, looking after him with her wide grey eyes.
Even through the drizzling rain he could see the gleam of her rich hair, the marking of her lovely face, and the carmine of her lips.